Your telling of Lost Mine of Phandelver could begin with the party reaching Phandalin at gloaming on the evening of the Festival of Faces. The harvest celebration is in full swing as they walk into town, treading along a path lined with the candlelit jack-o-lanterns the festival is named for.

Standing among the glowing faces of the pumpkins and turnips is Sister Garaele with a group of children seated around her, basking in the glow of the jack-o-lanterns and listening with rapt attention as the elvish priestess draws them into one of her frightening tales.

Perhaps the party hears something like this as they walk by on their way to the festivities:

“I once lived in Neverwinter, children. I might have tarried in the Jewel of the North longer were it not for the destruction of Mount Hotenow. One day, the mountain came rushing down upon our homes in a wave of molten earth and ash that consumed half the city, and continued on until it reached the sea. Thousands died, many of them instantly as they were consumed by the burning flow of earth like moths in a flame. And then there were those who escaped the lava flow but not the ash cloud, which enveloped them. The air became choking and hot as the fires of hell. Many came out of the ash cloud charred beyond recognition and dead on their feet. And I do mean dead. It’s been thirty years and, still, these soulless husks continue to walk among the eaves of the Neverwinter Wood and, I’ve heard, in ruined towns like Thundertree.”

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